I turned and gave him the remainder of our shared joint, and my apology was accepted. Being absolved by my victim was not enough though. I have since then lived with the fact that, in the literal more than the colloquial sense, I was now indeed a “turd burglar”.
Less than a month later, I was granted parole. I returned to my college career, only this time at the College of the Ozarks at Clarksville, Arkansas. It was a beautiful, tiny college tucked amongst giant oak trees in the foothills of the Ozark Mountains where I was pleasantly surprised by the presence of Thai students, lots of Thais, twenty something out of a total enrollment of only five hundred students. It was fun to meet and greet them in their own language.
Against all odds, I knew one of these fellows from Bangkok: Tom Sukaratana, whom many of the ISB students had known as “Tommy the Thai”. He had been the guitar player for a band called The Settlers that played at many of the functions the American kids attended, including our senior prom. He told me that some years earlier, two Thai students had come to Clarksville, and ever since, others had followed. All the Thai students there were from upper-class families. During the two years that I was there, they tried to help me with my Thai language skills since most of what I had learned at Lek’s was, it appeared, not always the polite form of the language.
The coincidences were only just beginning. A year later in Fayetteville, Arkansas, while I was waiting to complete the final month of my parole, Dennis came to visit from Virginia, bringing with him a pound of Columbian marijuana. On the first night he was there, we went to a dance club to have a few beers and, incredibly, ran into our old ISB friend and fellow Bahn Pee Lek habitué Mike, who was just back from his second tour in Vietnam.
Mike was wilder than ever, simply cruising aimlessly around the US in a shiny new gray Pontiac Bonneville with a tall beautiful girl named Patti. It seemed like he was running headlong towards or away from something. We spent a week trying in vain to out-drink and out-smoke each other until we had rehashed all the high points of our former glory days as high school kids in Bangkok. Talk of what we had actually done since Thailand was limited. That only made sense: we were all going nowhere and going there fast. Now and again, whenever the conversation lagged, you could fleetingly see that thousand-yard stare briefly cross Mike’s face.
When my parole was finished, I followed some gal to New Orleans, came back to Arkansas, and we wound up married for nine years. That is all I have to say about that.
During those years, my brother Steve taught me silversmithing, which he had learned while living in a commune in Taos, New Mexico, that was into things Native American. (All the residents of the commune were peyote-eating hippie silversmiths.)
As a consequence, I started my own little tourist-trap jewelry store in Branson, Missouri and met a tiny, lovely lady named Dori, who was living in a primitive log cabin in the woods nearby. Her strong, earthy and outspoken demeanor reminded me of a young version of Granny Moses from “The Beverly Hillbillies” TV show. Incredibly, she had also gone to the International School Bangkok and had likewise been a visitor to Bahn Pee Lek when she had lived in Bangkok only a few years earlier. Dori was an intellectually tasty breath of fresh air whose companionship I sought often. It was nice to have a kindred spirit and fellow ISBer close by.
Having moved from Branson to Tulsa, Oklahoma, I opened a jewelry store there. In my free time, I taught martial arts at a dojo there in exchange for training under the dojo’s famous martial arts master, Dr Roger Greene. At the Oklahoma City PKA invitational, I won first runner-up national champion in my division. Typically, my father reminded me that “second place” really means “first place loser”.
Once again, Dennis had come to
Less than a month later, I was granted parole. I returned to my college career, only this time at the College of the Ozarks at Clarksville, Arkansas. It was a beautiful, tiny college tucked amongst giant oak trees in the foothills of the Ozark Mountains where I was pleasantly surprised by the presence of Thai students, lots of Thais, twenty something out of a total enrollment of only five hundred students. It was fun to meet and greet them in their own language.
Against all odds, I knew one of these fellows from Bangkok: Tom Sukaratana, whom many of the ISB students had known as “Tommy the Thai”. He had been the guitar player for a band called The Settlers that played at many of the functions the American kids attended, including our senior prom. He told me that some years earlier, two Thai students had come to Clarksville, and ever since, others had followed. All the Thai students there were from upper-class families. During the two years that I was there, they tried to help me with my Thai language skills since most of what I had learned at Lek’s was, it appeared, not always the polite form of the language.
The coincidences were only just beginning. A year later in Fayetteville, Arkansas, while I was waiting to complete the final month of my parole, Dennis came to visit from Virginia, bringing with him a pound of Columbian marijuana. On the first night he was there, we went to a dance club to have a few beers and, incredibly, ran into our old ISB friend and fellow Bahn Pee Lek habitué Mike, who was just back from his second tour in Vietnam.
Mike was wilder than ever, simply cruising aimlessly around the US in a shiny new gray Pontiac Bonneville with a tall beautiful girl named Patti. It seemed like he was running headlong towards or away from something. We spent a week trying in vain to out-drink and out-smoke each other until we had rehashed all the high points of our former glory days as high school kids in Bangkok. Talk of what we had actually done since Thailand was limited. That only made sense: we were all going nowhere and going there fast. Now and again, whenever the conversation lagged, you could fleetingly see that thousand-yard stare briefly cross Mike’s face.
When my parole was finished, I followed some gal to New Orleans, came back to Arkansas, and we wound up married for nine years. That is all I have to say about that.
During those years, my brother Steve taught me silversmithing, which he had learned while living in a commune in Taos, New Mexico, that was into things Native American. (All the residents of the commune were peyote-eating hippie silversmiths.)
As a consequence, I started my own little tourist-trap jewelry store in Branson, Missouri and met a tiny, lovely lady named Dori, who was living in a primitive log cabin in the woods nearby. Her strong, earthy and outspoken demeanor reminded me of a young version of Granny Moses from “The Beverly Hillbillies” TV show. Incredibly, she had also gone to the International School Bangkok and had likewise been a visitor to Bahn Pee Lek when she had lived in Bangkok only a few years earlier. Dori was an intellectually tasty breath of fresh air whose companionship I sought often. It was nice to have a kindred spirit and fellow ISBer close by.
Having moved from Branson to Tulsa, Oklahoma, I opened a jewelry store there. In my free time, I taught martial arts at a dojo there in exchange for training under the dojo’s famous martial arts master, Dr Roger Greene. At the Oklahoma City PKA invitational, I won first runner-up national champion in my division. Typically, my father reminded me that “second place” really means “first place loser”.
Once again, Dennis had come to
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